


Love to Hate You

by bravebatgirl



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Chaotic Good Idiots, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone is in love with June tho, Fluff and Humor, Gay Panic, Hello My Love Oh I mean My Rival, It's Buddy Cop Time, M/M, Multi, Sokka is Chaotic Bisexual Mess, They fight for justice and say 'acab', Zuko is Panicking Gay Disaster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24823399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravebatgirl/pseuds/bravebatgirl
Summary: Sokka is nothing if not a pragmatist. Actually, rephrase that: Sokka is nothing if not a suave, charming, witty, and good-looking-as-all-hell pragmatist. He’s an atheism-inclined agnostic and proud… he recognises his ability to let his head rule over his heart. But see – there are a few sparse exceptions to that generalisation. One such is being partnered on a case with the city’s most unlikely yet promising private investigator… who also happens to be the son of one of the most notorious mob bosses.
Relationships: Katara & Sokka (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Toph Beifong & Sokka, Toph Beifong & Zuko
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Love to Hate You

**Author's Note:**

> what started off as a 1am-thought tumblr post has now transcended into... this. whatever this is.
> 
> I make a hella lot of song references/scenes inspired by particular songs and have started compiling them into a spotify playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0JaNrryu0lYMrfXcGOXJa3?si=6nV0EuSaTSqjtGaFdujmcA) if y'all are interested :3
> 
> happy pride month, gays

Sokka’s alarm blares at 5:30am as it always does, the bass of ‘Danger Zone’ making his phone vibrate on the bedside table. In similar act of daily practice, it goes hurtling across his bed and into the thin wall that separates his and his sister’s rooms. The loud music stutters but doesn’t stop, the voice of Kenny Loggins reverberating around the too-small apartment.

“Oh, my _fucking—_ Sokka, I swear to _God_ , if I wasn’t so tired, I’d strangle you with my bare hands.”

He groans, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye socket. “Not my fault you only finish your shift at 4-fucking-am. That’s seriously scat.”

“I hate you”, Katara grumbles back through the wall, voice croaky with much-needed and low-supplied sleep. Sokka is far too consumed with fatigue himself to spare her any sympathy, though.

It’s a methodical process getting out of bed and into the shower, where he blasts a jet a cold water down his back to jolt him into awareness. He blinks rapidly as droplets fall from his shoulder-length hair, dripping down from their chocolate lengths to the cool tiles beneath his feet. Running a hand back through the knots (God, he needs a haircut), he fixes the showerhead above him with a withering glare as it drips. It felt like only yesterday that they’d had the plumber out to fix the damn thing.

In reality, it had only been last week.

_‘The universe just loves being a perpetual thorn in the ass-crack that is my life, huh.’_

“One of these days, I swear”, he murmurs to himself upon getting out, rubbing a towel through his hair. He catches his reflection in the half-body mirror; toned and robust from a near decade of renouncing his lanky-kid limbs. He’s not one to brag _too_ much, but, well… damn. Twenty-seven and lookin’ like a slice of heaven. He winks, pointing finger-guns at himself before getting into his gym clothes.

Shouldn’t he be going for a gym sesh before showering? Hygienically speaking, yes. Is he going to shuffle his schedule around to start doing that? Absolutely not. Sokka has his methodology and structure; he likes it, it works, and he refuses to let anything mess it up. If he happens to stink up the apartment in the process and deal with Katara’s motherly scolding, he will cop it. Being organised means being in control, and control is stable. Control is known. Control is safe.

Following a good forty-five minutes of hammering his chest and arms until they felt heavier than weights to lift, he goes to change into his casual work clothes and coat himself in deodorant. He actively ignores the voice in his head saying ‘ _Aerosols contribute to carbon emissions, Sokka! You’re just as bad as oil and mining companies by spraying that can_ ’. It sounds suspiciously like of Aang. He’ll have to have a chat to the bloody hippie about unbidden preaching in his head the next time he’s over for drinks and Cards Against Humanity.

Work as private investigator never truly stops, but he’s officially on the clock at 8am sharp. It gives him ample time to buy a bacon, egg and sausage burger on a low-carb bun, a coffee-flavoured protein shake, and to walk along the city streets toward the shuttle that will take him to the precinct. It’s risky business in this part of town, and he would absolutely throttle Katara if she ever tried to replicate his practice instead of Ubering, but it gives him a chance to plug into his Spotify and let the warmth of the sun wake him up. His wool-lined denim jacket offers some shelter against the frosty wind that bites at his fingers. He shoves the rest of the toasty burger into his mouth so he can shove his hands into his jean pockets, humming along to Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It through mouthfuls of bacon. The song puts a swaggering bounce in his step, and he snaps his fingers as he walks down the sidewalk.

As he walks, he takes in the scenery about him. Phrasing it like that sounds as though its quaint and delightful and calming to one’s soul.

It’s not.

For nearly thirty years, Ba Sing Se has been plagued by a snivelling sort of scum that rots it from the inside. Actually, two sorts of scum. Mayor Long Feng, who has been in office way longer than should be permitted, has brought the city to his beck and call from within the system. He controls _everything_ , from the hospitals to the schools to the law. The latter is his personal favourite to manipulate. His personally instated police force, the Dai Li, are sworn to protect the citizens from both obvious and subtle dangers. However, Long Feng has them wrapped around his finger by a noose, and they often step beyond the general ‘sworn to protect’ and warp it to become ‘sworn to protect those who we deem worthy’. The notion alone is enough to send a vibrato of chills down a man’s spine. The reality is even worse.

Then, of course, there’s the second kind of scum – because apparently, according to the universe, corrupted authority wasn’t enough.

The Fire Nation, the most notorious mafia gang within the city _and_ the country, are both an overt problem and a rotting apple from within a barrel. They hide amongst the civilians, carrying out their boss’ dealings and motives like deadly mosquitoes in the night. You don’t really know they’re at your door, inside you house, with a knife pressed to your jugular as you try to scream out, until it’s too late.

Sokka takes a deep breath, sighing out through his nose as his eyes glaze over. He’s seen photos of the city before he was born, and how beautiful and vibrant it was. Now… he doesn’t even recognise that city.

Living in the lower ring and working in the middle gives him a wildly unique perspective. He’s seen just about everything and knows just how absolutely messed up everything is. Katara and he moved here from their small-town country in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere in the hope of doing some good with the world. So much had they seen torment and destruction, and they felt a keen sense of purpose to try revert some of the pain that had been inflicted. When Katara, top of her class in Biomedical Science, had been offered a place at the Royal Kyoshi Hospital in the Upper Ring of Ba Sing Se, Sokka had made the silent oath to stick by her side, as is the rule of a big brother. Their father, wholly supportive of his gumptious children, had made it abundantly clear that he would not be _financially_ supportive. So, run-down apartment in the Lower Ring it was.

The Lower Ring is an all-you-can-never-eat buffet of poverty. Crime is beyond belief, from white-collar to homicides, and orphanages are overrun with children. Many are the product of their veteran parents who couldn’t look after themselves, let alone a child, after the horror of the war.

Stray cats, dogs, and everything in between fight over dumpsters and screech into the night. Looters pillage upon small businesses, leaving many stores littered with shards of glass. It’s deplorable, and Sokka frowns as he sees one elderly man slowly sweeping away the remnants of last night’s troubles. It hardens into a glare as he turns away, and his grip around his satchel tightens.

The higher-ups may have forgotten the people down here, but he hasn’t. He never will.

* * *

Sokka steps off the shuttle with a drawn-out stretch and yawn, ignoring the odd looks he receives as he groans. Rich people and their bloody sense of decorum. He rolls his eyes.

It’s honestly destabilising to anyone new who comes to Ba Sing Se and witnesses just how diverse the city is in terms of standards. Where the Lower Ring is the equivalent of a warzone, the Upper Ring is nothing but nobility and fairy-tale royalty. Literally.

The sky is bluer, the birds sweeter – for fuck’s sake, you can practically see your reflection in the floor beneath your feet, even when you are outside. It’s jarring, and still throws Sokka for a loop on occasion despite his residence of nearly three years here. Ladies with Louboutin shoes and men in Ralph Lauren suits mill around the sandstone, assistants hurrying behind them with papers and coffees. They stop by five-star restaurants every morning for breakfast, before going off to their one or two meetings that occupy an otherwise free day. A brilliant, fourteen-foot tall fountain stands high within expansive courtyard, crystal-clear water glistening in the early-morning sun. Sokka passes the goddamn palace of _The President_ on the way to work. It’s just… wild.

Directly within the palace is Mayor Long Feng and the Dai Li’s headquarters, so Sokka always ensures he does them the courtesy of flipping them off with a grin on his face every single day. It’s the very least they deserve.

He marches forth, quietly beatboxing to the hype rap song blasting into his eardrums, and stuffs his hands into his jean pockets as he approaches his destination. The building stands high and golden, sparkling effervescent in the sunlight. If one had not seen the palace, they might assume this mansion to be the home of the most important member of society. However, they were still certainly up there in terms of influence.

He walks straight toward the main entrance, and there’s a beeping sound before the mechanical wrought-iron gates shudder to life and swing inward, opening up to him. He salutes the small camera trailing his figure, and makes his way up the sand-lime brick road. It’s only once he gets to front door that he removes his earphones, shucking them into his pocket (a mess he will have to untangle later) and presses the lower of two intercoms.

It buzzes for a few seconds, allowing Sokka to swing back and forth on his feet before a staticky voice cuts in, “Miyuki’s Crematorium – You kill ‘em, we grill ‘em. How may I help you, sir?”

“Yeah, hey, thinking about killing my boss”, he says, picking at some sleep left in the corner of his eye. “She’s kind of an asshole.”

"Yikes, you unlucky bastard. Haven’t killed her yet? What’s stopping you?”

“Her stupid security system. It’s easily more advanced than the President’s. I’m not too great with cracking the wireless stuff.”

“Rough. Maybe invest in a bounty hunter if it’s too hard for you to do the grunt work yourself?”

"Oof, well, looks like you’re on your own then. Not much I can do against someone so badass and untouchable. She sounds goddamn incredible. Who is this legend?”

Sokka sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ— Just let me in.”

There’s a snort through the line, followed by a low cackle, before finally, “Well, since I’m so nice. Door’s open, idiot.”

He shakes his head. “Thanks, asshole.”

Sokka steps into the grandiose mansion, all marble floors and jade statues. The perpetual smell of incense overrides his senses, and he sneezes unbiddenly. The sound echoes around the house, reverberating through the walls and around him. He lets out a soft sigh, reaching hands up to adjust his man-bun before walking down the corridors.

It’s honestly what he imagines Bruce Wayne’s house to be like, with the astronomically high ceilings, priceless artefacts just sitting around and massive portraits It’s one of the smaller sections in the monstrous house, yet this room alone is thrice the size of his whole apartment. Desks are lined against the walls that are hung with pinboards, papers scattered around haphazardly. Katara would have an absolute conniption if she saw the reckless chaos he allowed himself to work in. He doesn’t mind though; it’s an organised mess, and everyone knows roughly under which pile they need whatever one crucial document they require. Sort of.

As the music plays louder than what is conducive to work, a figure sits atop the desk opposite his, legs crossed over each other as they lean back on their hand. In the other, they flip a pocketknife beneath fingerless-gloved hands. Across from them, another leans on a wall, arms folded over their chest with their feet flat on the ground. Before Sokka can announce himself, the latter’s head pops up, milky eyes focusing on him.

“ _Ayeeeee,_ double denim, Snoozles.”

' _How does she know? Seriously, this chick has some psychic ability or something.’_

The former lifts a brow at him, pausing mid-flick and balancing the knife on their knuckle. Then, they snort. “Go back to the nineties.”

Sokka winks, pointing finger-guns at both women. “I’m bringin’ it back in, baby! _Retro style_.”

Toph snickers as June simply rolls her eyes, vaulting off the desk and stashing the hand-sized weapon into one of her many thigh-straps. The bounty hunter tightens the guards on her wrist as she speaks low and smooth, “And _that_ is my cue to swing out. Nyla’ll loose it if I don’t get back in time for our run. Might rip up the drapes again if she sees another cat.”

“Sweetness”, Toph says with a nod of her head, nonchalantly scratching at her bum as she walks forward to join her older colleagues. Hands rested upon her hips, she turns toward June. “I’ll call you when I find some more information regarding the perps. Should have your pay cheque by Friday. Any problems with the transfer, give us a ring.”

“No problem. Unlike some of my clients, I don’t have any doubts about you paying up. The digs speak for themselves”, she notes with a low whistle as her dark eyes survey the room. “Man, I could get used to a place like this.”

“I’m sure Toph would love you as a roomie”, Sokka muses with a grin. “The amount of trouble the two of you could bring combined to the _esteemed_ Beifong House—”

“Don’t even tempt me”, Toph points at him, cheeks turning pale rouge.

“Well, kids, it’s been real.” The bounty hunter spares a wink in Sokka’s direction. “I best get home before the Dai Li crawl out of their nest. As much as I enjoy parkour, it’s pretty annoying when I’m this tired.”

“Fair enough”, Sokka agrees with a nod.

June lifts her hand in a two-finger salute, crooked smirk on her dark lips as she lifts her bag onto her shoulder. “Later, losers.”

“See ya round, Junie-boo”, Sokka calls with a grin. It turns into a laugh as the bounty hunter flips him off before disappearing out the door. He sighs, turning to Toph with a sly upturn of his lips. “I can see why you hired her.”

“Well, I can’t see _period_ , so I have no idea what you’re talking about”, the short and lithe woman snaps with a punch to his bicep, face looking as though it has spent a year under the sun. She marches over toward her desk, sitting down in the most non-aristocratic manner before pushing papers and bills aside haphazardly. With unseeing eyes, she points a finger directly into Sokka’s face and turns it. “You’re goddamn lucky she hasn’t impaled you yet for that stupidly smart mouth.”

“It’s called… _charm_ , Miss Beifong”, he croons with an incredibly Bond-esque voice and expression, showing off the smoulder he’s been practicing in the mirror.

“‘Scuse me while I barf.” Toph doesn’t even look unimpressed – she barely looks interested. She starts whistling along to the Fall Out Boy song playing as she leans toward her laptop and starts typing at the speed of lightning – Sokka has only underestimated Toph because of her blindness once, but he is still absolutely dumbstruck with her ability to competently use a computer. He has long since learned to not question it, though; he still can’t walk perfectly straight from the last time.

“So,” he sighs, hooking his thumbs into the beltloops of his jeans, “what you got for me today, O Captain, My Captain?”

“You, Snoozles, are in luck”, she says absently, sparing him a milky-eyed glance before resuming her typing. “Got quite the case for you last night. Don’t think you’re gonna get bored anytime soon.”

“ _Oo_ , sounds exciting.” He swings around a nearby chair so he can sit backwards on it and folds his arms over the top of it. “Details, details.”

She quirks a brow up at him, lip turning at the corner, before clicking something with the mouse. Behind her, the printer whirs to life, and she jumps from her seat, clearing her throat in the process. “I’m sure you remember that story a few years back of how the Ozai’s daughter got her mind scrambled and wound up in a loony bin, straight-jacket and all.”

He purses his lips and throws his head back in consideration. “Katara wouldn’t appreciate the term, but yeah, sure.”

Toph lets out a snort, shaking her head and mess of a bun on top of it. “Yeah, well, we’ve been given some intel about how Ozai is planning to bust her out. Obviously, she’s a danger to herself and to society, and given his track record with humanity, we can bet that Ozai isn’t planning on meds and treatment to fix the schizophrenia. We have a solid inclination that he’s going to use her and manipulate her in some way for his own personal gain. I stayed up last night, and the possibilities seem endless, from hostage situations to suicide attacks.”

Sokka’s brows furrow and he leans forward over the back of the chair. “Well, shit.”

“Damn right ‘well, shit’.” The printer beeps its finishing signal, and Toph whisks the papers into her hands before walking back toward her desk and plonking down, waving her hands in vague gestures as she continues. “Anyway, given his connection and power over the Dai Li, we can’t trust the system to protect her and other civilians. This is where you come in.” She bunches the papers together, learning over to grab a stapler. “I’m putting you in charge of investigating along with our informant to figure out just what Ozai is planning and how we can protect Azula so that she nor anyone else gets hurt. We need to find her, protect her, and ensure she keeps getting the treatment she needs so she can recover. She’s a ticking timebomb, and we cannot let her explode. Here’s her fact sheet”, she says, flourishing the papers toward Sokka with a stretch.

The young PI nods solemnly as he flips through the file, doing a preliminary scan of the information. “Got it. Thank you for entrusting me with this”, his eyes flicker up to her. “I won’t let you or the city down.”

“Hope not, Snoozles. My brain works much better in my head than scrambled on pavement.”

“Noted… with definite disgust”, he adds in a mutter, frowning as her runs his finger over the colloquially-dubbed ‘Princess of the Fire Nation’s stats and figures. “Um… you mentioned something about working alongside the informant?”

“Ah,” Toph leans back in the chair, clapping her hands together as she grins, “yes. Our wonderful inside man. He should be arriving any minute now.”

“Cool, cool, cool, cool”, Sokka says absently as he turns the right way around in the chair, crossing a leg over as he begins the internal Connect Four. His tongue clicks rhythmically to the song on the overheard speakers and his raised foot taps the air to the beat.

His eyes widen as he continues to read. Holy _shit_. This chick is deadly as hell. She could probably give his ex-girlfriend a run for her money in a fight. Azula Himura, twenty-four-years old, five-foot-four and full of fury, so it seems. Apparently, she’s trained in several forms of martial arts, and is a consequent fourth-dan black belt in karate and Northern Shaolin kung fu. She’s highly trained in coercive control and strategy, and then there’s her criminal record. Charges of first-degree murder, manslaughter, fraud, assault causing bodily harm… Yet, she has never been incarcerated. Mother-bloody-fucker, she was already a weapon before getting institutionalised. Now that she’s unhinged… Toph’s right. She _is_ a time-bomb, and if she falls back into the extortive clutches of her father…

Lord have mercy.

In his peripheral vision, Toph rises to her feet with a grunt, sticking her hands into the pockets of her camouflage trackpants as she whistles her way to the door. Just as she reaches it, there’s a knock from the other side. Sokka, not looking up from the file, snorts. “I will never understand how you get that right every time.”

Hand gripping the doorknob, she swings around and gives him the biggest shit-eating grin possible. “And I will never tell you. Trade secret. Now, look alive, Snoozles. Your partner is here.”

Arching his back in a stretch as the door clicks open, Sokka lets out an obnoxiously loud yawn, shaking his head of leftover tiredness as he rises from his chair. As the door opens, the easy smile on his face drops along with his jaw, and he stares all wide-eyed and gobsmacked, rotted to the spot like an electrocuted gingko tree.

At Toph’s welcoming gesture, chestnut oxford shoes step into the room, charcoal slacks that are slightly too tight at the thigh meeting them at the ankles. Tucked into the pants is a faded-maroon plaid shirt, which is accompanied by a black trench coat and loose tie. An alabaster hand – coupled with a gold watch on the wrist – reaches up to comb back through midnight-brown hair that looks like it is perpetually tousled by the wind. Cool eyes that look like they’re filled with molten gold focus onto Toph in a small smile, and ingrained around one lays a scar that puckers the reddened skin and arches above his brow line, fanning across into his hairline.

In spite of the disfigurement, this guy looks like an Asian Adonis. He also looks like a twenty-something-year-old version of Ozai. Sokka’s eye twitches.

Toph seems to be unaware of Sokka’s current existential crisis, or maybe she just revels in watching him suffer, as she turns around with a bright grin and says, “Detective Sokka Nakasuk, meet your partner for this case and new bestie, Zuko Himura.”

**Author's Note:**

> sokka, just minding his dorky business:  
> zuko: *manifests out of wet dream or k-drama, walking in slo-mo with windswept hair, designer clothes and that pristine rugged handsomeness, Real Games by Lucky Daye somehow playing in the background*  
> sokka: ah yes, loathing is the burning sensation within me 
> 
> ^ song is in the playlist, and yes, i was drooling along with sokka imagining mid-twenties zuko walking in to it
> 
> hope you guys liked this first chapter!! this one was pretty short as it was more of an introductory prologue, but yeeeee fingers crossed it was still enjoyable. there was an insane amount of hype behind it on tumblr, so i hope it lives up to expectations 🥺


End file.
